


That one time Clint Barton showed up Fifteen Minutes Late with Lemon Cakes

by Ambrosia



Series: When Something Goes Wrong, it's Usually Clint Barton's Fault [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: As usual everything is Clint Barton's Fault, Gen, Spoilers for most of the movie so be warned, general cuteness, major spoilers for Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia/pseuds/Ambrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Really,” Barton says. “Cause, Cap, you know I’m always up for double-crossing a massive secret agency, but what I don’t like is hopping off my evac and getting seventy four, I repeat, seventy four new messages from everybody from Fury to goddamn Tony Stark. Nat, I expected better from you. After all the shit in Gibraltar, and you do this to me? I'm a saint. I'm a good person. I don't deserve this.” </p><p>Natasha shrugs, picking at the crumbling pieces of Lymonnyk he’d tossed her earlier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That one time Clint Barton showed up Fifteen Minutes Late with Lemon Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> Like you didn't wonder where this asshole was the entire movie.  
> [tumblr](http://www.valorious.tumblr.com)

Clint Barton doesn’t even drop his panic-bag at Cap’s feet before he opens his mouth. “I was gone for three days.” 

You know what it’s like to get off a fourteen hour flight and find everything has gone ass-up to hell? It’s not fun. It’s not fun to have to march his numb ass straight to a hospital because, and he could actually quote, “Hey sweetheart, it’s been a while. We should meet up in Monterey.”

Because that is the codeword for ‘don’t even bother coming back, there ain’t nothin left but ashes but I could probably use an evac no questions asked’. Why he and Natasha had to have a code phrase such as that, he didn’t know, but damn him if they didn’t actually need it.

But Cap looks worse for wear, the new stray they have apparently brought in Clint's absence is asleep in the chair, and though he can’t see her, Clint knows Natasha is at his back. And yet, Clint remains pissed off.

Cap smiles. “We did leave you messages.” 

“Ha, you’re so clever,” Clint snorts, throwing the gifts he had grabbed from a tiny airport in Lensk over his shoulder. He guessed, and was ultimately correct, that Natasha caught them mid-air. “Seventy damn messages, you are all pieces of shit.” 

“Спасибо,” says Natasha. 

“Doesn’t stop you from being a piece of shit,” Clint says. He makes his way to the last empty seat at Cap’s other side, flops down into the shit chair and stretches out his legs as far as he can. He still has his suit on underneath the jacket he grabbed when he was still in Russia. “But I remain the absolute soul of giving and generosity, so you’re welcome.” 

Natasha says nothing, and Clint can't tell if the newcomer is paying attention, and Cap just tries to scoot up in the hospital bed a bit but keeps wincing. 

He crosses his arms and sinks so low into the chair so that his nose is roughly level with his knees. “So,” Clint says conversationally. “Who caught the bouquet?” 

Cap laughs a little bit but clutches at his side. Natasha won’t even _look_ at Clint, and that usually means bad shit went down. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D was a sleeper cell for HYDRA, Nick Fury was dead for like twelve hours,” says the newcomer. Awake, apparently. “I flew around and was completely awesome until some super soldier dude that Cap apparently knew way back in the day grabbed one of my wings and swung me around like a yoyo and he and Cap essentially took three super helicarriers out of the sky. Oh, and S.H.I.E.L.D got destroyed and Widow here made all the files public.” 

There’s a moment of silence as Clint looks at each and every person in the hospital room, mouth hanging open and the general disbelieving, yet resigned sound of ‘ _dude, are you fucking serious’_ leaking out of his lungs. 

“You,” Clint snaps his head up and points at Sam, “You and I are gonna have a talk, but you,” he turns and points at Steve, “I’d like to reiterate, I was gone. For _three days_.” 

Cap shrugs. “What can I say, I work fast.” 

“Really,” Barton says. “Cause, Cap, you know I’m always up for double-crossing a massive secret agency, but what I don’t like is hopping off my evac and getting seventy four, I repeat, seventy four new messages from everybody from Fury to goddamn Tony Stark. Nat, I expected better from you. After all the shit in Gibraltar, and you do this to me? I'm a saint. I'm a good person. I don't deserve this.” 

Natasha shrugs, picking at the crumbling pieces of Lymonnyk he’d tossed her earlier. 

“Also, who are you?” Clint asks the newcomer, then turns to Natasha. “Who’s he?” 

“Sam Wilson,” Steve says, “Clint Barton. Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, a.k.a Falcon.” 

“Sup,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, howdy,” Clint says, taking Sam’s offered arm across Cap’s bed. But before he’s even finished he turns back to Natasha who has a tired, guilty look on her face and he says, “You _replaced me_?” 

“I’d never dream of it.” 

“Bird,” Clint points to himself, and then points to Sam. “Bird. Smells awful like you found a replacement.” 

Natasha kicks his panic-bag over, so Clint pulls out the rest of the Lymonnyk and waves it in front of Steve. “Starbucks?” Sam asks. 

“You bite your goddamn tongue. I flew this shit fourteen thousand miles cause _somebody_ asked me to, and apparently it was all an excuse to get that video of me dancing on a table in a bar in Budapest on Vine.” 

“You obviously don’t know how much certain parties are willing to pay for that,” Natasha says, cooly.

Clint snaps his head in her direction, “You leave her out of this, she gets me in way too much trouble, anyway.”

Natasha leaves the plastic spoon in her mouth, raises her eyebrows and turns away from him. Goddammit.  

“Hold up,” Sam says. “Where exactly were you?” 

Clint cuts him off with his mouth still full of lemon cakes. “That’s classified.” 

There is a beat of silence in the hospital room while everyone appears to wait for Clint Barton’s brain to open up and drop out of his skull. 

“Oh,” he says. “Right.” He lets his head fall against his chest in defeat. “Son of a bitch, does this mean I have to start getting my arrows from Stark now?” 

There’s a beat of a pause, but then Natasha says, “I think you may just survive.” 

But Cap says, “You’ve obviously never had Tony Stark attempt to show you how to use a smartphone.” 

Clint groans. He slides a hand over his tired face. Sam laughs. 

The room falls into companionable silence more befitting a sick patient, though Clint has no doubt that Cap is more than on his way to being back to fully charged. Natasha starts talking in low, guttural russian that he only catches every other phrase to. 

Sam and Cap discuss twenty year old movie soundtracks and in general shame him by not mentioning any of the greats in the last thirty or so years that he’ll have to re-school them both on later.

Clint tolerates it for a while before he lifts his hands in disbelief again and says, “ _Three_ days!”


End file.
